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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046933">Higher Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s'>heli0s</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky "wearing" lipstick, Bucky getting raiiiiiled, Bucky in a harness, Happy Valentine's Day!!, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Self-Indulgent Bucky-Centric, Service Dom Reader, Switch Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:49:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046933</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve receives his Valentine’s Day present in a series of small heart attacks. Also known as: the time you strapped Bucky into a harness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>169</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Higher Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve receives his Valentine’s Day present in a series of small heart attacks.</p><p>How is he supposed to make it home in one piece with the trail of <em>very </em>explosive anticipation you’re placing down? There’s a wildfire igniting inside his bedroom right now, but he’s still hours away over the Atlantic, desperately shifting in his seat to avoid letting everyone else in the jet know <em>just</em> how tight his pants are getting.</p><p>The too-innocent starter message on such a momentous day slipped through the cracks. A simple photo of you in bed with Bucky curled up so sweet and soft it made him smile. Made his heart swell to see the gradual development.</p><p>He’s peacefully dozing off when the second one catches his attention: a box with the caption <em>present came this morning</em> before Steve opens a semi-blurred picture of a dark leather strap over Bucky’s clavicle and your finger coyly on top, nails pressing pink crescents into skin.</p><p>Hours between the first and second, Steve’s brain still on soft and sweet before it starts to spark at the third. It switches gears, feeling—knowing— arousal flare across his cheeks, imagination spackling in the cavities of his knowledge. What’s missing from the photo darts the sweltering behind his ears straight down into his gut.</p><p>The phone buzzes again in his increasingly sweaty palms and he taps it open because he <em>loves</em> torture. Self-sacrificing idiot that he is, can’t disappoint you like that now, can he?</p><p>God help him. Fucking <em>idiot</em>.</p><p>The muted playback (because he’s at least got a tiny sense of self-preservation) begins harmlessly once more (because you clearly know he’s gullible for the same traps). Positioned to catch the side of Bucky’s face, you’re kissing him featherlight. Steve knows Bucky loves it most like that— drawn out and teasing and he’s quivering soon enough, arching for more, needy now, and the shake of the camera in his hand is a tell-tale sign.</p><p>He tilts back when you route to his chin and neck, his lips in a silent red gasp. Steve narrows his eyes at the shade—not just pink as usual after it’s been worked over. Rosy, he knows well. But this is bright like either maraschino cherries or fresh blood, smudged across Bucky’s wide mouth.</p><p>Steve’s sucker-punched into paralysis at the sight. Buck with his eyes glazed over, throat constricting, lips bright and—so <em>pretty</em> on display. Steve always told him he had a mouth like a girl, teased him that he’d be prettiest with a bit of that Victory Red on. And, god, he<em> is.</em></p><p>It’s a brand-new look. Him messy with daubs of your lipstick, made up and dirtied with such determined purpose that Steve’s hardly noticed how your arm has shifted to ease the phone from Bucky’s rapidly careless grip.</p><p>A swipe of your fingers, a catlike smile, and Steve witnesses it all. One hand on Bucky’s throat, other aligning the camera for Steve to gather the entire picture, and when you turn and give him a better show of it— a vivid red shine shared between lovers— and that buttery soft leather over Buck’s chest, Steve crunches himself up against the window so hard he’s probably gonna break it.</p><p>However many hundred thousand feet up in the clouds, his head wheels in disbelief like a centrifuge, faint and giddy, higher than the jet itself.</p><p>“Steve,” Sam calls warily, “You okay, man? You look like ants are chewing your ass.”</p><p>Steve makes a hysterical sound, something between a wail and a snivel and Sam’s eyes narrow from his face to the phone cracking apart in Steve’s palm. “The… huh,” he rummages until he remembers that it’s the 14th, “Oooh, gotcha.”</p><p>“Sam,” Steve says pathetically, “You have no idea…”</p><p>Bucky’s home and locked into a leather harness, wrists fastened, chest puffed out and heaving—marked across his sternum between the straps, fucking—<em>lipstick</em> on, looking like he’s about to die from being so worked up. Looking like he’s a sacrificial lamb offered up for slaughter by your magnificent hand.</p><p>And more than Sam never being able to guess the state that Bucky’s in, he’s worlds away from guessing what <em>you’re</em> up to right now. Sure, anyone meditating on the position (literally and figuratively) that a woman between two super-soldiers might be in could fathom that the three of you get up to some <em>activities</em>, but you are so good at pretending to be respectable when Steve and Bucky sure as hell know you’ve got them on a short leash.</p><p>Apparently, today, the short leash involves a tight collar.</p><p>Still playing from his phone, you fish out something off screen and Steve’s about to die right next to Bucky. His suspicions are confirmed: it really is a collar.</p><p>-</p><p>“<em>Guh</em>,” is all Bucky can manage.</p><p>He’s in more pain than he was on that metal slab in Azzano. No cutting of his heels or force injecting him with serum, but the heat lancing down his spine feels nearly as raw. It’s excruciating and delicious and despite himself and all his hesitations<em>,</em> he’s ravenous for more.</p><p>How’d he know that when you mentioned some lingerie coming in that it would be for him? Or that the so-called present the three of you would be enjoying together would <em>be</em> him? Poor Bucky figured it was a fancy dinner, or maybe double blowjobs—equally mouthwatering—but then you swung that leather yoke in his face and he realized it was much too big for you.</p><p>“You gotta—” he moans, “<em>Can’t</em>.” He’s been on his knees for <em>years</em>, feels like, carpet grinding into the thin skin over his joints and shins and ankles. His wrists are numb from straining against a pair of special-made-super-soldier-proof handcuffs—damn Stark and his contraptions—and his chest has bloomed purple flowers in the shape of your canines.</p><p>“You can.” You flick his face up to the ceiling and when he’s unable to look, you crack your palm against his left thigh.  </p><p>“Jesus!” Bucky nearly shrieks, clenching up and gnashing his teeth, but unable to deny the way his dick automatically flexes up toward his belly button. You’ve never <em>done</em> this before—never been so <em>mean</em>, and frankly, the reality of him being restrained by someone other than Steve is frightening. Jesus Christ, he’s got a fear boner. It’s the only explanation.</p><p>Simply put, Bucky is afraid of you. Downright <em>terrified</em>.</p><p>When Bucky scooped all the ruined pieces of himself together and found Steve again, you were right beside that blonde 6’2” brick wall—and it was cracked open in <em>love</em>. Steve was so goddamn smitten that Bucky had flashbacks to Peggy Carter’s scarlet dress in that dusty old bar and Steve vibrating like he could burst out of his skin and sell her his soul.</p><p>Bucky’s own soul time travelled to the awful moment he realized Steve Rogers couldn’t be his anymore now than he was then, and it wished more than anything that his brain could just… re-scramble.</p><p>Lucky for them both, you were <em>equally</em> smitten with the idiot brick wall and shocked everyone by inviting Bucky and his single rucksack into the shared apartment. Permanently. Knowingly. You watched with patience until finally… it just… happened.</p><p>Three weeks and three-quarters into a boring movie with the wailing orchestra, your tolerance having had enough of their skittering around each other, and you reached over the couch, across Steve’s shoulder, and simply twirled a strand of Bucky’s hair.</p><p>That was all it took. One thumb jerked towards the bedroom and you stated nonchalantly like the implication might have been a list of groceries, “I don’t get jealous.”</p><p>Off to bed, it was. A couple of hours with Steve looking on the verge of tears for most of it, and Bucky emerged thoroughly fucked with the biggest craving for a post-fuck drink. He felt better than he had in many, <em>many </em>years, and after a few seconds of awkwardness as he stood in the kitchen, wondering what to do next, you pitched through the archway with a 24 pack and then talked his ear off the rest of the night like he was an old friend.</p><p>At this point, he <em>feels</em> like an old friend. God, you must know everything about him now.</p><p>He gets cagey, though. It’s an unavoidable reflex from being deprived of all humanity other than what he held onto of Steve. He’s proud to say that most days fly by without a hitch; everyone plays their part. At home, on assignments, in bed.</p><p>There’s two beds, by the way, in case you want a night alone, which is bound to happen when two out of three of those people run hot like an old-timey radiator. Or when privacy’s needed, or when Steve does something stupid and you’re so pissed off you isolate him either until you stop wanting to strangle the super-life out of him—or at least until morning. It’s hilarious; he skulks away like a kicked puppy and everything.</p><p>On those rare nights, Bucky’s awarded a little bit of time with you all to himself, and he tries to touch you the way Steve might touch you: slow, considerate, pulling out all those pretty, pretty sounds. It’s always good. But it’s not quite the same. Still, you gasp and moan for his sake, and sometimes you let him fall asleep in your arms, too.</p><p>It’s a developing routine. Idyllic, even. And when has Bucky ever known idyl?</p><p>“Look alive, Barnes.” You lean down and give him another smack.</p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>Two hits this time, his thighs becoming glaring neon signs, deep pink imprints of your palm and the blurry outlines of your fingers on both sides. You fix your silk robe, looking downright heavenly with the kind of expression that makes him pause. He takes a second to adore it—<em>Jesus</em>, you’re pretty, but cagey again, and Bucky casts it from his swimming head.</p><p>“Is this some sort of—<em>ahh-</em> indicator,<em>” </em>he shudders as you sweep his hair from his collar, fingers tracing his jaw. Your thumb streaks across his mouth and Bucky smells that waxy rose aroma on his lips. “Of?”</p><p>He realizes he never finished his train of thought, getting distracted with your thumb so close to his tongue.</p><p>“How you— actually feel about me— or something,” he gets out eloquently, just in time before you hook in the first knuckle, and Bucky’s reduced once more to speaking only in vowels.</p><p>Your brow scrunches up lightly for a second before you say slowly, “What?”</p><p>Ah, shit. He’s done it now. That swift look crossing your face like a blackout, breakers flipping your expression into one he knows on occasion and loathes to see. You drop down to your knees and lean in close, grip solid on the back of his neck before he can dodge, wet finger stamped at the base of his skull.</p><p>“Shit—” he blurts, frozen, “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>Palms land gingerly on his thighs, massaging the skin, softened now. “Should we stop?”</p><p>“No,” Bucky replies.</p><p>“Okay.” Your pretty brow furrows, creasing concern between prettier eyes. “Bucky, I like you.”</p><p>He stammers, “Y-yeah…” And he knows it, he believes it, perhaps he feels it too—but his brain never quite lets him lean into it; he’s never said it back. You give him a slow kiss anyway, pulling away to where your lips still touch him, breath sweet in his mouth. You nip, barely tugging, barely kissing and it gets him shivering again, hot across his face, in his belly.</p><p>Gracefully circling him, you move behind his line of vision, pressing your face between his shoulder blades where his muscles are bunched together from the place of his arms. “You’re wonderful.”</p><p>You nose up the notches of his spine, shifting his hair and peppering slow tracks on the back of his neck. Bucky arches like a cat, groaning low and broken, his chest toward the ceiling, head going nowhere but further into your hold. “Such a pretty boy… so pretty on your knees.” And the fire in his belly burns brighter.</p><p>“Christ,” he chokes, flinching when your breath tickles him, forgotten about everything except the way his skin tingles for more. “You’re gonna kill me.”</p><p>“Nah,” you smile, “I’m saving that for Steve.”</p><p>-</p><p>Steve looks like he ran through a tornado to get home. His hair’s sticking up in all sorts of places, fluffy golden, disheveled. His chest, heaving, panting—lips dry, rosy across his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He stutters once, twice, at the sight before catching himself on the bedroom’s doorframe and says with quiet reverence, “Hey…”</p><p>Clearly amused, you sing a greeting of, “Good flight?”</p><p>“No—<em>baby</em>, you can’t— you can’t send me that kinda—Jesus, <em>Buck—</em> what’s goin—<em>shitfuck–</em>”</p><p>His brain feels broken to bits. Bucky’s still sitting on his legs, impressions of carpet stark white and dappled on his shins when he shifts. His mouth—his gorgeous fucking mouth—is much brighter than the video. One vermillion corner sweeps all the way up to his cheek, some beneath his lip, reaching toward the jut of his chin, making him look even more pouty than usual.</p><p>He looks like someone socked him in the face, the color so dark it’s like a fresh welt. He looks vulnerable. He looks—<em>wrecked.</em></p><p>And… there’s that harness, god help Steve Rogers’ poor fucking soul, it’s doing even worse things to him than he predicted.</p><p>It fits Bucky like a glove. Two wide straps over the shoulders and two beneath his armpits connected by metal rings, and finally, one across the middle over his sternum, pressing down on the tops of his pecs. His arms are behind his back, pushing his chest out even more and every time Bucky takes a breath, he showcases a strain of flesh around the edges of leather—on pure display.</p><p>“Steve,” Bucky says breathlessly, like Steve could fix either of their sorry states. The black briefs he has on looks ready to split with his erection beneath it and Steve swallows thickly when the light hits that shiny spot of wetness bulging against Bucky’s left thigh. God, he couldn’t have been like that … the entire time… right? Just, hard, and waiting?</p><p>He tries to walk like he’s not a bag of pudding, but his knees keep giving out under him. You look on serenely, still barely draped with his favorite silk robe, the sheen catching light at your shoulders and the tops of your breasts, on the curve of your thighs. You graze your knuckles over Bucky’s cheek, then the bridge of his nose curiously like he’s a pet and not a grown man.</p><p>“You ‘kay?”</p><p><em>Hell no</em> is the answer to that, <em>am I hallucinating</em>, subsequently, but Steve can’t utter anything past the conglomeration of curse words he last ejected.</p><p>“Uh—”</p><p>“Take that as a no?”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>You sigh defeatedly in jest. “This must be why they let Tony talk at press conferences. Alright, honey. Go on, take your pants off for us nice and slow.”</p><p>“I gotta clean up,” Steve finally vomits out, thank god his faculties are returning.</p><p>“Huh.” You put your hand in Bucky’s hair, “I guess it can’t hurt. I wanted to test the limits of your serum when it comes to maintaining—” you gesture at Bucky’s groin, “And, well, it’s been about two and a half hours. I <em>suppose</em> he can wait another fifteen?”</p><p>“Two and a half…” Steve says, stunned.</p><p>“<em>Steve,”</em> Bucky whines again. And Steve wants so bad to rip that flimsy piece of fabric off, but he’s been in the suit for <em>35</em> hours and the thought of anyone putting their mouth on him is just cruel and unusual punishment—even worse than what Buck’s been getting.</p><p>-</p><p>He makes it back in 10, dripping wet, hard as hell. He smells too much like that mountain fresh scented bar soap, but Bucky doesn’t complain when Steve shoves his dick in his throat, so. A few sloppy sounds and Bucky reels to catch his breath, leaving trace patterns of fuchsia on Steve’s shaft.</p><p>You give him a nudge.</p><p>Worried now that Bucky’s not attached to him and not fixated<em> entirely</em> on getting his rocks off, Steve gently advises, “Baby, give ‘im a second.”</p><p>You wait precisely <em>one</em> second because what else was he expecting. “Chop chop, Barnes, speed it up. You’ve got a dick to take.”</p><p><em>Dick to take</em> ricochets in Bucky’s brain, but you don’t care much for his speechlessness, only patting the bed. “Haul him up.”</p><p>Then, because the last two hours have been shaving your patience just as much as it has theirs, you fist Bucky’s harness the same time Steve scrambles for the front. Two light grunts and Bucky finds himself deposited unceremoniously, even bouncing a few inches into the air.</p><p>His stomach launches up his throat—a swarm of butterflies erupting like an active volcano. No time to focus on it though, because Steve is climbing over him, hair dripping, kissing him until his head sinks into the mattress.</p><p>He’s resumed autopilot, turned on and pawing at Bucky like a cat at a Christmas ornament, half playful, half violent, intensely kissing him until Bucky can barely breathe. It’s so different with him, who’s all open, all the time; Steve just puts his hands wherever he pleases and doesn’t overthink anything<em>.</em></p><p>Bucky arcs up. It’s the first time he’s had preferred contact in <em>two</em> hours and the noise he makes is outright shameful— moaning like he’s in <em>heat</em> or something. Steve doesn’t seem to mind and only reaches down to pull Bucky out of his briefs, parting abruptly to look at you by their side, container of lube in your hand like you’ve conjured it out of thin air.</p><p>“What ‘bout you?” Bucky mutters, embarrassed at being watched. Another new thing to the list of increasingly new things happening today. It’s never been like <em>this</em>; routine’s always been about you in the middle if all three are involved because it just works better that way. And because he feels so guilty sometimes about upturning a relationship that was <em>yours</em>, even if he loved Steve first a lifetime ago— Steve was <em>yours</em>.</p><p>“What’s that face for?” You ask, tilting your head in interest.</p><p>“Nothing,” Bucky responds quickly, “Uh, what… what do you want me to do?”</p><p>You smirk like he’s said the silliest thing and twirl your pointer in a circle in the air— the universal signal for him to turn around.</p><p>Bucky almost howls when Steve edges his way in. Steve works him up, like always, but his entire body’s been bowstring tight for so long that every time Steve touches him, Bucky’s on the verge of coming so hard he’ll see the end of space and time. Not an exaggeration.</p><p>What keeps him from it is the flickering resistance in his throat, throbbing in a bad way every time he remembers where you are and how you’re watching. Even though you run your hands through his hair and kiss him, tell him he’s pretty and how lucky you are, how lucky Steve is to have him like this, he just can’t step out of his head.</p><p>A few more seconds of Bucky writhing against the handcuffs and Steve unhooks them, letting him fist the sheets and hide his burning face. You toss the metal off the bed, following soon after and the next thing he knows, Steve’s cursing, his cock pulsing and aroused at something. Your hand twists his hair, bundling it all up with a hard yank until he’s lifted from the covers.</p><p>You sound disappointed when you say, “I really have to do everything around here, don’t I?”</p><p>The collar is cold and thick. The chain behind it jingles innocuously like a pocket of loose coins but he’s practically immobilized. He can only turn his head so far before his jaw catches the leather and he’s stuck. Can’t look down or up at all, either, and holy <em>shit</em> if Bucky wasn’t so confused, he would blow his load from the way you hold the tether alone.</p><p>“<em>Uh</em>—<em>guh</em>—”</p><p>Steve breathes, “<em>Jesus</em>.”</p><p>Bucky’s got a dry pill that tastes <em>mountain fresh</em> boarded up in his esophagus, dripping out of his pores, and congregating toward of that strip of black around his neck. He wants to ask <em>Christ, were you always like this? Rogers, what’d you do to her</em>. But he’s obviously gotten it wrong the entire time. He shouldn’t have wasted all those nights fumbling nervously, giving himself pep talks before attempting to touch you.</p><p>
  <em>I don’t get jealous. You’re wonderful. I like you, Bucky.</em>
</p><p>Poor, stupid Bucky and his self-induced suffering when no one else in this relationship cared to think beyond when or where their next orgasm was going to be. Okay, <em>that’s</em> an exaggeration, but he’s taking the entire picture into account—and other than maybe Steve tearing up again because he’s mawkish like that—Bucky went from recently getting into the habit of sleeping beside you, the even more recent habit of bedding you, to skipping right over a handful of relationship milestones before landing <em>here</em>.</p><p>Helpless on Valentine’s Day and suddenly being pierced with the most obvious arrow (besides Steve literally inside of him), Bucky silently thanks and curses Cupid’s arrival—better late than never, the fucker.</p><p>“What’s that look for, sweetheart?” You’re cleverly eyeing the curve of his waist and Steve’s enormous hands clamped on his hips, the way Steve’s thighs make vulgar contact with his ass. “You feel good?”</p><p>He nods dumbly, keening when Steve falls back into him, “Yeah…”</p><p>Bucky’s vision blurs like frosted glass, sweat prickling across his brow and nose, above his lip as his jaw hangs open, leaden tongue wanting to say it loud—say it all.</p><p>“I—like it,” he rasps, breath punched out of him every time Steve hooks in. He’s in <em>deep</em>, a trigger yanked somewhere inside Bucky and he knows it’s no longer about <em>sex</em>. He doesn’t just love the way you touch him or kiss him. Nothing shallow that he couldn’t get from anyone else. No.</p><p>His hand clumsily gropes for your arm and finds your calf. Good enough. A blind yank and you’re partially beneath him, toes on his sternum and not exactly where he wants yet. You’re a bit surprised at his haste, but he gets a better grip—a knee this time—and when he tugs again, you take the hint.</p><p>“All you had to do was ask, you know.”</p><p>“Get <em>over</em> here,” he grunts. Curved over him, Steve reaches too, laughing soft and happy as he helps you shuffle until you’re spread out and Bucky attempts to park his mouth between your legs.</p><p>It’s sloppy and he keeps missing; his tongue is going <em>everywhere</em>, but there’s not much Bucky can do when Steve’s fucking into him like he’s trying rip him apart. You’re giggling, though, that astonishing airy light sound that makes his chest flutter, makes his worry go away for a few minutes. He loves that sound. Loves the mouth it comes out of, too.</p><p>Of course he does. He willingly put himself in the harness, didn’t he? He’s stayed this long, hasn’t run himself off into another continent, lives in this apartment overflowing with the warmth of you and Steve—he falls asleep in your arms and—</p><p><em>Okay.</em> It’s love. Feels like love.</p><p>“Buck,” you say, smiling big and eager like you’ve got the power of an inside joke. “You like this?”</p><p>Your face blurs an array of colors, the white of your teeth slipping through the smear. “Tell me,” you urge tenderly, fixing your foot over his back, winding the chain of his collar around your fist. He bites down on his bottom lip, eyes squeezed as Steve goes deeper, harder, making the both of them rasp and pant.</p><p>“I like it…” he admits, shoving his face into the meat of your inner thigh to provide some security. Shy and guarded, his heart pounding in his ears before exhilaration crops up. He tries it again, bolder and with his teeth at the diagonal of your pelvis, scraping lightly. “I love it,” and again, with a harder bite, making you hiss, but you don’t recoil. Of course you don’t.</p><p>Again, even surer, as you yank him up with the collar, he turns the phrase over in his head, having practiced enough by now, knowing it needs correction—needs perfection. Steve strokes his spine in encouragement, but Bucky doesn’t require it anymore; he knows exactly how he feels. “I love you.”</p><p>Finally, at last, just once more— bordering a shout because Steve’s jerking inside of him, coming hot and thrilled with his hand wrapped around Bucky’s ribs for leverage. He folds, Steve dropping after and nearly landing with his whole body on top of Bucky’s scorching back.</p><p>Bucky goes limp, shaking and rubbing his brow on your belly, his lips to your center, kissing, kissing, kissing. You watch him with that lovely shine in your eyes, gasping when a wave of affection courses through him and he grasps you by the hips, bringing you completely onto his face.</p><p>Steve kisses Bucky’s neck and between his shoulders—you following, with the most indulgent grin.</p><p>Then, to no one’s surprise, because Steve Rogers always puts his hands wherever he pleases, he starts laying into Bucky again—and this time, Bucky <em>does</em> howl.</p><p>-</p><p>“Maybe next year, I’ll put Steve in a harness.”</p><p>Barely five minutes later, Steve rocketing past his first orgasm and blowing through his second, and you doing that quiet little shake you do when someone works you <em>just</em> right, Bucky finally rolls over on his back with a warbly and content whimper.</p><p>You slightly crunch up, “What do you think, Bucky?”</p><p>He only gulps at the thought, eyes still firmly shut, trying to regain balance and doing <em>so</em> terribly. He’s too overwhelmed right now and thinks he just needs to go to bed for about eighteen months. The idea of it, Steve—his giant fucking pecs, that sharp waistline, his arms behind his back—<em>fuck, no.</em></p><p>“I will die.” Bucky decides, “Permanently this time.”</p><p>“Alright,” Steve hums in return, “That settles it. Not next year.”</p><p>“Yeah?” You say, and without seeing you, Bucky can hear that wicked little smile you seduced him with earlier this very morning.</p><p>“Nah,” Steve confirms, because you’re both hellbent on pulverizing him into a sobbing, drooling mess. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”</p><p>And in the haze, Bucky still spun clear out of his body and through the evening sky, sweat slick, obscene with the scent and taste of his lovers, he laughs. Pure joy erupts from his mouth, his hands scrambling for your arm and Steve’s, so giddy in his chest he can’t help it.</p><p>Must be love, after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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